


In Sickness and In Health

by QuickYoke



Series: Coffee and Tea [4]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, and then fluff, but first a healthy dose of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3213383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickYoke/pseuds/QuickYoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angie gets sick and Peggy is terrible at feeling helpless. A sequel to "Old Coffee, New Friends."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sickness and In Health

It was just a flu, Angie assured her, and she would definitely be better by Peggy's birthday.

This wasn't how things were supposed to work. The sick shouldn't comfort the hale. Yet even sweat-slicked shivering Angie burrowed beneath a mountain of blankets could see that Peggy was terrible at feeling helpless. She could kill a man six ways to Tuesday, but she was absolute rubbish at holding hands, and waiting around, and listening to the rattle in Angie's every breath.

Peggy went to work, restless, prowling the floor behind her desk like a jungle cat. Her dark gaze followed anyone who approached, hardened to flakes like flint. She answered telephones with a growl that sent whoever had rung on the other end scurrying away. When told to file stacks of paperwork her usual roll of the eyes and aggrieved sigh and snippy comment was replaced instead with a glare that would have frozen hell over. After the fourth day of this, even Dooley noticed.

“Carter, what the hell is going on with you?” he barked.

“I'd keep your distance, Chief,” Thompson warned warily from his station, “She's been like that for days. My guess? Women's troubles.”

Her lip curled. Thompson raised his hands in mock surrender and turned back to his table.

“In my office,” Dooley ordered, firm, jerking his thumb.

Following, stiff-backed, Peggy shut the door behind them with a controlled click. Features carefully schooled, she waited to be chewed out. Instead Dooley sat on the edge of his desk, crossed his arms over his chest, and said in a low voice, “Everything alright, Carter?”

Peggy would have preferred if he had yelled at her. Anything but this, “Fine, Sir.”

“Bullshit,” he countered not unkindly, meeting her hard stare, unflinching.

With a sigh she tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear, “My,” she paused, “friend is very sick. I feel restless. I want to be doing something. I'm not cut out for _this_.” She gestured to where she stood, her feet itching in their stylish pumps.

Dooley sucked at his teeth thoughtfully for a moment, “Alright,” he stood and opened the door, yelling, “Thompson!” he beckoned and Thompson hopped up from his chair, “Take Carter with you on the St. Anthony bust.”

Shrugging, Thompson said, “Sure, Chief.” He jutted his chin in Peggy's direction, “Think you'll be ready to head out in fifteen?”

Oh, yes.

Oh, she most definitely would be.

An hour later they were approaching the back entrance to the Church of St. Anthony of Padua down on Sullivan Street. Peggy had only half listened to Thompson's briefing on the car ride over. She didn't really care about some Italian mob boss and clearing his hideout.

Thompson was still yammering away in her ear, drawing his jacket aside for better access to his gun, “I'll go first. Stay behind me, and try not to get shot. Carter?  _Carter!"_   


She ignored him. Without breaking stride she kicked in the locked door and opened fire. Two empty magazines, four shattered chairs, one broken table, and a snapped baseball bat later, Peggy was standing in the centre of the back room, hair mussed, chest heaving, cheeks flushed with triumph. Eight burly men groaned at her feet. One sobbed and clutched at the bullet holes in each kneecap.

Thompson gaped from the doorway, “Jesus, Carter!”

Fixing him with a look – her lips canting up just slightly when she saw him start and take a step back – she made her way over, “Hold this for me, won't you?” She pressed a cracked baseball bat into his hands, “I need to find a lady's room and powder my nose.”

His expression of stunned horror was enough to make her smirk bloom into a full-blown grin. Her ribs ached, and she limped slightly. She could already feel the tapestry of bruises forming across her abdomen. She felt better than she had all week.

All during their clean-up and the car ride back Thompson was satisfyingly quiet. Until, when they reached a light on 14 th , he turned and asked, “Where'd you learn to fight like that?”

Arching an eyebrow, Peggy drawled, “Do you not read through your fellow agents' files?”

He scratched at his five o'clock shadow, “I do,” he muttered, defensive, “Yours was classified. Above my clearance.”

A single harsh bark of laughter escaped her, and she shook her head. After a moment of tense silence, during which the light turned green and the car rolled forward, Peggy said, “I was picked up by the Armed Forces in 1931. Went through basic. Worked my way up from there.”

“Must've been slow,” Thompson shifted gears and squinted out at traffic.

“ It was,” she worried at a broken nail, “In almost seven years of service before the War even started I only made it to Lieutenant. Officially, that is.”

“ And unofficially?” he asked.

Peggy smiled, “That's classified.”

A snort of amusement and he replied, “Fair enough.”

Her smile rapidly faded as she gazed out the window at the blurred buildings. Suddenly 1931 didn't feel like so long ago, and she was orphaned, living with her slow-moving grandmother, watching her succumb to the demented haze of Alzheimer ' s. From a young age she thought her birthday was cursed. What sort of child w as born on the 27 th of July 1914 to a mother dead in childbirth, and to a father killed in the war that started a day later? Raised on rations, and Zeppelin raids, and Gotha bombers, and radio messages of U-boats, and tales of the Boer Wars from her Nana, Peggy grew up too fast. By 1931 she was a hard-eyed, narrow-shouldered seventeen, sneaking home bloodied knuckles and bruised jaws instead of boys.

The Army could never drag that old life out of her. No matter how hard they tried, she still swung a fist like she was in a smoke-crowded pub on the dirty side of London. That was how the grizzled old Sergeant had originally found her – smashing in the heads of three thugs with a bottle and a battered barstool, arm like a battering ram, voice like a bellows, all spark and coal-hot. He'd pulled her away when she'd had a go at the owner too for not defending his waitress from creeps, dragging her out back before she did something she would regret – even as she hissed and spat like a wildcat all the while. Turned out she had a tangled history with defending waitresses.

The Sergeant managed to calm her down before she tried clobbering him as well. They were out back smoking when the police showed up, sirens blaring, and he'd stepped forward, warding them off despite the owner's furious demands for her arrest. Later he drove her home, and she sat in the passenger seat of his rusty car, ankles tucked up beneath her, sullen. As she made to leave, he handed her a card with his contact details.

“ The war's over,” Peggy said.

The Sergeant grunted, “War's never over, kid.”

Two weeks later she contacted him and lied about her birthday, adding an extra year so she could join the Armed Forces. When Angie first asked about her birthday, Peggy deflected -- as she was only too good at doing. Angie had wheedled and pouted for weeks until Peggy gave up and gave in. Even as she told Angie the falsified birthday she could feel the bile rise in her throat. Lies came so easily. Angie deserved better than this. She deserved better than a woman with a fabricated birthday, and a fabricated job, and a silvered tongue. 

“ You alright there, Carter?”

Peggy jerked out of her reverie and realised her eyes were wet with unshed tears. Breathing deeply she said, “Just drop me off at home. You can  take the credit for this one.”

He shot her a dubious look, “You sure?” When she nodded, he rolled his shoulders, “Whatever you say.”

Ten minutes later he was pulling up to The Griffith. As she opened the door and swung her legs over the seat to leave, he made a jerky aborted motion, then said, “Hey. Whatever's eating you up? I hope it gets better soon.”

“Oh, god,” her voice caught, “Don't be nice to me. Not now. I'd prefer to categorise you in black and white.”

He offered a rueful genuine half-smile, and she wanted to snarl and knock his teeth in, “Yeah. Don't we all.”

Slamming the door so hard it drew the scrutiny of a number of passers-by on the street, Peggy didn't wait to see Thompson pull away from the curb. What good mood she had managed to painstakingly pry from her day was rapidly evaporating. She stormed into the Griffith and up the flight of stairs, sparing no glance regardless of who smiled and hailed her. Marching right past her room, she let herself into Angie's apartment without knocking, and locked the door behind her.

“ Hiya, Peg!”

A blanket draped across Angie's shoulders like a shawl. She was moving across the tiny kitchen, clutching a handkerchief and periodically coughing into it. Most of the weariness and bone-deep ache of sickness had melted from her, and she plucked the steaming kettle from the stove with an ease that hadn't been there for days, “Perfect timing! I was just about the pour some tea. Chamomile for me, of course, but I should have some of that black stuff you like around here somewhere.”

With a series of graceless clumps Peggy dropped her handbag and  kicked off her shoes. Making her way over to the kitchen, she wordlessly plucked the kettle from Angie's hands, set it down on the nearby counter, then pulled her in for a crushing hug.

“ Woah! Ok, there.” Angie patted Peggy's back, “Tough week, English?”

Swallowing past an obstruction in her throat, Peggy nodded. She nuzzled into Angie's neck and breathed in a deep relieved sigh. Angie smelled like warmth and sleep.  Peggy's  arms tightened their grip.

“ _Oof!_ I surrender!” Angie waved her handkerchief like a white flag.

“ Sorry,” Peggy mumbled as she untangled herself and dropped heavily into a dining room chair, “I'm just-” her exhalation was long and shaky, “I'm glad you're feeling better.”

A tender kiss was dropped on the top of Peggy's head, “Takes more than a bug to kill a Martinelli. My grandfather out-muscled malaria, you know.”

Then she was back around the kitchen, scooping together teacups, and saucers, and spoons, and honey, and a small jar of milk from the fridge, “You wanna go out to the theatre or something for your birthday tomorrow? It'll be a Saturday after all.” She asked as she assembled everything on the table and sat across from Peggy.

Peggy froze, “I'd prefer to just stay in with you if that's alright.”

“ Fine with me!” Angie slid a cup of tea across the table – black with milk, no sugar, “In fact, it's more than fine. After all that time sleeping, my bed needs to be involved in more recreational activities.” She waggled her eyebrows.

Peggy laughed, her first sincere laugh in days. Every drop of  anxiety rushed from her like a flood.  The teacup was warm against her fingertips, “Why, Miss Martinelli! When you said I could come over to borrow some sugar, this was not what I'd expected!”

Angie gave her a warm smile and teased, “Yeah, well, when you live under Miriam's roof you get real good at code-speak. You need to brush up on your ciphering skills, English.”

“ I'll work on that.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I worked backwards to guess Peggy's age. She would have had to be 18 to enlist during the inter-war period (you could enrol at the age of 17 with parental permission, but couldn't go to camps until you were 18). We know she was an agent by 1940, when she infiltrated Castle Kaufmann. She doesn't look older than 35 by 1946, so if we say she was 26 by 1940, then she was born in 1914. She would've joined the Army at the age of 17 in 1931 (having lied about her age), and trained for about 7-8 years before WWII started.
> 
> UPDATE: Yes, I know canonically she was born in 1919, but seeing as that's a stupid decision I've elected to ignore it.


End file.
